


Altschmertz

by IraDeu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, I make fun of Adam Sandler, Multi, Polyamory, flagrant disregard for reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10314932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IraDeu/pseuds/IraDeu
Summary: I transplant the amnesiac gimmick from 50 first dates onto Sherlock for an effect that I don't think I was expecting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 50 First Dates was built around the idea that Adam Sandler falls in love with a girl that can't remember anything that happened since a car accident except for what happened to her that day. They also made this a romance plotline. There are consent issues literally written into the fabric of this story, and it's completely understandable if you don't want to read this - I wrote this *because* of how creepy I thought it seemed. 
> 
> Note that I show about as much respect for reality as Adam Sandler and Mofftiss do. So: literally none. 
> 
> Please do not attempt to learn about brain trauma from fanfiction or Adam Sandler.

The wreck happened when Sherlock was going to visit Mycroft. (A week after John moved into Baker street - late enough to be worried, but not enough to justify anything.) 

It was Mycroft, then, that stayed by his side, that watched. That wrote the letters. That started looking up funeral homes and signing donor forms. 

When Sherlock woke up, Mycroft cried. 

The doctors were surprised that he survived, and even more surprised that Sherlock seemed unharmed. 

Mycroft held his breath. Good things didn't happen to them. Something was wrong. Something. There _had_ to be. 

When Sherlock woke up and asked why he was in a hospital, Mycroft almost felt relieved. 

It could have been worse, he told himself. It could have been worse. 

* * *

Mycroft figures that it's only fair, really. Too much given at the start, so of course they would have to take some away later. Sherlock had always been smarter than him. Now, he was crippled. Handicapped. 

Sherlock would probably hate that Mycroft thought of him like that. 

Sherlock probably hates that Mycroft thinks of him like that. 

Sherlock's rehabilitation consists of notebooks, beepers, post-its. Sherlock can remember anything that happens throughout the day. He can remember anything that happened before the accident. He cannot remember anything in between. There is now, and there is before the accident, and there is nothing else. There are clocks, calendars, everywhere, and Sherlock is paranoid that he will not remember. His paranoia is not unfounded. 

Mycroft asks if there is anything they can do. Mycroft begs. He has the entire British government to back him up, he says. Anything you want. 

There is nothing, they say. This is not a problem that can be fixed with money. 

Mycroft is scared. 

* * *

Sherlock started reading journals in the morning about a week after he woke up. 

He'd do this by putting the journal under his glasses, with a note that said "READ" on top of it, and then setting his alarm to an hour before anyone else would expect him to be awake. 

When Sherlock walks into Mycroft's room with breakfast and asks him when they will leave, Mycroft nearly cries. 

* * *

Sherlock is released shortly after that. Mycroft  is very good at these things. Mycroft is very good at securing Sherlock's freedom. 

Like they discussed, they do not go back to Baker Street. Like they discussed, they do not tell John that Sherlock is well. 

What they do is go to Mycroft's home and practice. Sherlock writes this all down in his journals, and Mycroft watches. 

* * *

Mycroft has Sherlock run through puzzles. Mycroft tests Sherlock on what happened yesterday, the day before, and what they were planning to do. Mycroft forces Sherlock to learn the violin, in hopes that the callouses will be a reminder. 

This is when Sherlock first obtains his habit of not sleeping until he is done with a case, until he has written down every single detail that he could ever need to remember. 

This is also when Sherlock develops his caffeine addiction, and when Sherlock starts to index his journals. If up-to-date scientific knowledge is needed, read the green one. If notes on previous cases you have solved is needed, orange. For a precise rundown of every single event that has happened to you, black. 

Mycroft can almost  _feel_ Sherlock falling into a habit, and swears that Sherlock seems less and less surprised every day. Or maybe he's just getting better at hiding. Or maybe Mycroft is just seeing what he wants to see. 

They find that facts do stick, but it is slow and unpredictable. If you still wanted to be a chemist, Mycroft says, you could. It would take effort, but you could just read your notes before- 

No, Sherlock says. 

And then, do you remember my private business. 

I thought your detective work was just a hobby, Mycroft said. 

Well, so was journal-writing. It's procedural. It uses my mind. I don't have to know things, just see them, and put them together. And I could help people. That could be my work. 

Sherlock, we both know that is not what you want to do. 

Mycroft, he says, I am twenty-two. I have no idea what I want to do, yet. 

You're halfway to a doctorate. 

Well, no point in finishing that, now, is there. 

Sherlock, please. Finish your studies, and...

Why? So I can prove to you that I can function? 

Yes, Mycroft says, and he is ashamed. 

* * *

They stay in Mycroft's house, for the time being. Mycroft emails Sherlock's professors with explanations that Sherlock laughs at. Sherlock pulls up cold cases and sends Scotland Yard tips. 

Before long, they start to recognize his voice. 

Who are you, they say. 

I'm Sherlock Holmes, he says, invariably. Personality, especially his, does not change. 

Well, we'd love to have your help, if you ever got a chance to come around. But understand that this conversation - 

Never happened. I know. Thank you, Lestrade. 

* * *

Sherlock's journal starts taking longer and longer to read, which is why Mycroft suggests that he recompile them. As opposed to speed-reading, though Sherlock is getting quite good at that. 

You could remember just the important bits. Keep the rest on hand for storage. It would be more... realistic, even. 

Mycroft, if I do this, will you let me go home? 

It chills Mycroft to the bone, to hear this, and he does not know why. 

That is also when Mycroft notices Sherlock starting to  _watch._

* * *

The thing that Mycroft thinks Sherlock fears most is stagnation. Sherlock is afraid of not growing, of becoming stuck as his 22-year-old self, forever. 

He has countered this with his journals. They are deconstructions, wisdom packaged, growth encapsulated, and Mycroft can see Sherlock grow, change, even in the few weeks that Sherlock stays with Mycroft. With allotted time for self-improvement, Sherlock improves.

Sherlock is growing wiser, because he's been forced to. Sherlock is growing more consistent (thirty minutes of meditation daily, an hour of reading journals, an hour at least of learning skills, an hour of journal writing) because that is the only way he can keep up. Sherlock accommodates himself. Habits remain, even when memories do not.

I will be better than you, even through this.

Which is the way in which Sherlock goes about destroying his defenses.

Look, he says. I am responsible, even if I cannot remember. I know what I am doing.

It's ten. Sherlock has already written his journal for tomorrow, and now the brothers are doing absolutely nothing, sitting in the living room and talking about something that even Mycroft will not remember. Sherlock will not write this down. This, him, here, now, is a gift for Mycroft. A secret. Something only Mycroft will be able to see.

Mycroft has grown careless, now. He has the ability to, and he has the need. He worries. He wants. The knowledge that he, here, has the power to do anything, and that Sherlock would not remember, is liberating. Here is a spot that is at once both free from taboo and the embodiment of it.

Mycroft shifts in his seat uncomfortably, to hide the front of his pants. (Mycroft was never very good at denying himself things.)

Sherlock sees.

Mycroft, he says, and looks at him.  

Mycroft. What do you want? 

And Mycroft does not tell him - something too terrible to name, to him, even in a place that is void of consequence. 

Mycroft, I would not be surprised if I woke up beside you tomorrow. 

His breath hitches, half surprise, half something forbidden, something to be feared. 

Mycroft. What do you want? 

And Sherlock reads in Mycroft's eyes to sit on his lap, legs spread. 

I won't have to know. We can do this - and, if you regret it, you never have to tell me about it again. 

And Mycroft lets Sherlock take him. 

* * *

They clean up, afterwards, with Sherlock removing every trace of Mycroft's scent. They chance that Sherlock would deduce what they had done was high, which was why they had to take such precautions. Later, Mycroft would clean their flat, would wash the sheets, take out the trash, after Sherlock was already asleep and forgetting. Their relationship on Mycroft's terms, now. 

You have control, Sherlock says. I do not need to know of this unless you want me to. If you would only like for me to know some of the time, that would be acceptable. 

Mycroft can see what he means: Please stay. I will do anything to have you, even if it means losing all control, losing myself. 

And Mycroft cannot deny that, even as he is afraid of his responsibility, the thought that he controls their relationship thrills him. 

* * *

Mycroft does not tell him, the next morning, and, if Sherlock deduces it, he does not say. 

Mycroft knows that there is not much time left before Sherlock leaves, before... and he is so, so afraid. What if Sherlock changes? 

No, Mycroft thinks. That is not what you are afraid of. 

* * *

Mycroft lets Sherlock go the next day. 

Sherlock, if you ever feel the need to, you can come live with me. 

I won't need to, Sherlock says. I can take care of myself. 

Mycroft winces. 

* * *

When Sherlock gets back to 221B, John cannot tell that Sherlock is not the same. 

Correction: John can tell that Sherlock is not the same, but he cannot tell how. There is something different about him, and John cannot see what. 

Are you okay, John says. 

Yes, Sherlock says. 

* * *

Sherlock finishes his doctorate. It is harder than he expected, and also easier. He wakes up every morning at midnight to read notes, and sleeps as soon as he gets home. 

It's no longer just the facts. Sherlock notes, exhaustively, what connections he has made, what he has said to whom. 

This is when he also gets a reputation for curtness. Be silent, and you will not remember what you have said. 

John notices, he thinks, and says nothing. John grows a mustache, and Sherlock thinks it looks terrible on him. 

This was the first sign. 

* * *

The day Sherlock receives his doctorate, he sets his alarm for eight. The normal time, before everything happened. And that gives him plenty of time to drink and laugh and talk with John. (He is too drunk to see how suspicious, how afraid John is. All he sees is friendship.) 

The day after Sherlock receives his doctorate, he is woken up at seven. 

John, he says. 

Then watches. John feels the lag in response time, the this-is-not-right-but-I-will-make-it-seem-so. 

Why would John grow a mustache? 

Make no comment. 

It's seven, John says. I thought you'd like to be woken, given how early you usually get up. 

I wake up at eight, most days, Sherlock thinks, and John can see the subtle the dilation, the subdued panic. 

Sherlock successfully makes it to the breakfast table before John calls him Dr Holmes. 

Sherlock simply nods, then, and knows that this is wrong when John turns his head and  _looks_ at him. 

Where are my glasses, he finally asks. 

And then, where are my notebooks. 

* * *

John hands him his glasses and his notebooks, and Sherlock remembers over cups of coffee. Skimming. John watches. 

Did you read them, he asks, when he is done, and John can almost see the subtle shift in demeanor, can almost watch the year tick on, can almost see the stress that he did not know had become normal. 

Yes, John says. 

Not all of it. Just the beginning. Not anything... personal. I promise. I wanted to know what you were studying, and couldn't sleep. I wanted to know what you did. I wanted to know more about you. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. John is lying, but he does not know it. 

Sherlock does not mind. John is John. He is trustworthy. He is both powerful and powerless, and therefore both above and below deceit. 

Sherlock sighs and decides that today will be spent teaching John. 

Okay, he says. Here is what happened, and here is what I do to compensate, and here is what you can do to help me. 

* * *

John is a fast learner, so he nods and understands when Sherlock tells him what happens. 

Mild anterograde amnesia, Sherlock says. My ability to create new memories is severely limited. Not gone. But not sufficient. However, my ability to create new skills and use my general cognition is increased. So I compensate with fast reading and journals and deductions. 

What can I do, says John. 

Nothing, says Sherlock. You do enough already. 

Sherlock, I... what if you forget? 

I will not. I grow wise through my journals. I learn. I can take care of myself. 

But... 

I am not a cripple, Sherlock says, and means for it to sting. 

John is trying to help. This is why he continues, after he closes his eyes and clenches his fists and prays to a God he doesn't know if he believes in that this man will not destroy himself.

Don't you hate having the same problems, year after year after year? 

So does everyone. 

* * *

John calls Mycroft, after that, and asks him what the everloving  _hell_ they were thinking not telling him. 

We wanted to keep you safe, Mycroft says. 

He does not say: We did not know what you would do, if you knew. We were afraid what would happen if he came back damaged. 

We did not know how you would treat him. 

Sherlock is afraid of becoming dependent, and I do not have the strength required to resist him. 

Mycroft does not say this, but John infers it. 

And then John does something wonderful. 

I understand, he says. 

I understand, but you shall not do this to me again. 

* * *

Mycroft visits and takes Sherlock home, the next day. 

We need to discuss some things, Mycroft says. 

Sherlock does not question him. Sherlock does show a flicker of a smile, and Mycroft knows that there is no way he could know, but also knows that Sherlock is much smarter than his condition would make him seem. Even if Mycroft is now the smarter brother, the brother with more knowledge, Sherlock is, and always shall be, faster. Intelligence is more than the accumulation of facts. 

When they get to Mycroft's home, Mycroft pins him to the door and kisses him, and Sherlock does not resist, just as Mycroft knew he would not. Their hips buck, first in unity, then rubbing, pressure, heat, dissimilar. Sherlock is entirely at Mycroft's mercy, which is why he has all of the power. Sherlock's body is being used, yes, but used to service Mycroft's need, and Mycroft knows that his brother has always loved this sort of submissive power, being a willing pawn. 

We have done this before, Sherlock says, right on cue. 

Yes, Mycroft says, breathless, needy. Mycroft was never very good at denying himself what he wanted. 

And you are ashamed, Sherlock continues, with that same flicker of a smile. 

Are you surprised? They have paused, now. Their conversation takes precedence over the action they converse about. 

Not in the abstract. But with you, yes. I would have thought that you would have removed that years ago. 

He says this as if changing his personality is that simple, and Mycroft feels angry, until he realizes that, for him, it is. For Sherlock, reinvention is as simple as changing a few words in his notebook. Sherlock has the power to forgive and forget, to remove grudges, to change. To lie to himself, without effort. 

Mycroft realizes the tyranny of memory, then. A slave to the past. 

He takes Sherlock to bed. 

* * *

You must let me write this down, Sherlock says. You would not want to hide this from me, even if you could. 

I could, Mycroft says. 

I could read it in your voice. If you refused to speak to me, I would see it in your posture. If you refused contact outright, I would see it there. You want this so badly that it has changed you. 

And you, Mycroft says. What has it done to you. 

Mycroft, I have wanted you for longer than you think you know. 

Sherlock leaves it at that, then goes back to cleaning Mycroft's stomach, and Mycroft shudders. 

* * *

They leave bed a mess an hour later, Sherlock dragging himself away from Mycroft's arms. There is a business we must attend to, Sherlock says, and John will figure out if I go home looking like sex and smelling like you. 

How would John take that, Mycroft asks, and does not know if he is joking. 

I don't know, Sherlock says. 

This is a surprise. 

Stability has never felt quite this close, and never quite so far away. 

Sherlock, he says, no-one would think twice about two brothers living together. Not in the city. We could blame it on rent. 

Yes, Sherlock says, but John would know. 

Sherlock gives Mycroft one final kiss and says, know that I would not be surprised to wake up beside you. We cannot, not yet. But know. 

* * *

Sherlock's career with Scotland Yard does significantly better than John thought it could for anyone with anterograde amnesia. Then again, this is Sherlock. He would fight God just to prove that he could win, and then walk over to Hell himself. This is a man that finds hidden pasts for sport, even as he does it for survival. 

John comes, on some of these cases, when there's time. He is astounded by what Sherlock can do, and knows he would be even if Sherlock was not an obsessive amnesiac. 

He is also afraid - afraid that Sherlock will get shot or stabbed, afraid that he will lose, afraid that he will fall asleep or be revealed. He is trapped, constrained awkwardly and with unknown consequences. 

He wasn't really surprised, then, when Sherlock was kidnapped. There's only so far that you can cheat luck before something catches up to you. 

He was surprised by the method. Moriarty had put sleeping pills in his coffee. Sherlock had not drunk coffee before his accident, and did not know what coffee tasted like. 

It's the little things, John thinks, that make the story all the more horrible. 

Moriarty had then simply taken Sherlock. 

John tries not to think about what he will find, about what they will have to do, and carries Sherlock's little black journal, the one he always read, with him. To explain. 

If he got the chance. 

* * *

Sherlock is surprised when he wakes up, but not as surprised as he feels he should be. 

He is in a cell. He does not know the time, or the month, or the year, but he knows this, because yesterday, it was winter, and now it is summer. Much too hot. He does not recognize the clothes he is wearing, except for the coat. 

So. Missing time. 

What has he done since then? 

Who is he? 

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. 

A man walks in. Sherlock does not recognize him, but feels that he should. This man is probably responsible for his imprisonment. 

Do you know my name, he says, and smiles. 

Yes, Sherlock says. 

What is it. Sherlock swears he licks his teeth, like a cat. 

Lucifer, Sherlock goes with, because that tells him all he needs to know. 

The man smiles. 

Call me Jim, he says. Lucifer feels so... formal. 

* * *

The ritual plays out three times. It takes John three days to find Sherlock, to wrangle Scotland Yard into the shape that he needs them to take. 

Why does he matter so much to you, Donovan asks. 

Because, John says, and  _looks_ at her, and she does not question him further. 

* * *

John walks in, and Sherlock is dragged to alertness by the sound of gunfire. 

You, John says to Jim, cannot take Sherlock from me. You do not know how much he means to me. 

Jim smiles. I think I do. 

That is when John shoots him. John is not a fan of villain speeches, and John has secrets that he does not Jim to find. That is Sherlock's job. 

They never do expect that, do they, Sherlock says. 

John hands him a journal. 

Trust me, he says. Please. 

* * *

Sherlock is done scanning through it by the time the Yard gets there, and John can feel his mind buzzing. 

What had Sherlock seen, there? What had he deduced, in the crystalline fractures of John's behavior? 

Sherlock is silent on the way home, and John tries his hardest not to pray. 

* * *

So, Sherlock says, hanging his coat on the rack. 

I don't think I expected that to happen. 

What, John says. 

And then Sherlock makes dead eye contact with him and says, I noticed. 

What do I mean to you? 

I... where is this coming from? 

What didn't you want him to know? 

Sherlock, you know. You don't... His voice cuts off, learned fear. He has been trained to not talk to authorities. 

I want you to tell me. 

And then John kisses him.

(It's a fair enough compromise, between not telling him anything and telling him everything.) 

And then pulls away. It's adrenaline. It's nothing. I don't- 

I doubt that. What did you want to do to me, instead of handing me my - 

Let me show you, John says. Before I change my mind. 

* * *

Stay. Sleep with me. When you wake up in the morning, I will explain to you everything that has happened. I will help you shine your light. 

Yes, Sherlock says, but I need a written record. For speed. And I will need to have this night for the rest of my life. It must be written down. 

Then I'll do it, John says. I can write. You can watch me. 

Sherlock blinks. 

What's wrong, John asks. 

That... had not occurred to me, before. 

* * *

John writes. Sherlock watches. 

I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, Sherlock says. Because you were fascinating. You were a giant knot of contradictions, with scars that lead to one another, to a core that I so desperately wanted to find. And you were so kind, even as you were hostile. No-one had told me, before, that my skills were wonderful. 

Except for Mycroft, he thinks. 

Then: shit. 

Sherlock rubs John's back absentmindedly and watches ink flow on page and thinks about how John is adding a single page to a work he can never know the whole of. 

* * *

One day, we will break up. Statistically speaking. And then what will you do? 

Sherlock, go back to sleep, John says. 

What will you have learned? 

I don't know. 

I'm going up to my room, Sherlock says. I need to do something. 

* * *

John, he says, the next morning. It is early. Sherlock is worried, even if John does not know about what. This is never good, and John does not remember anything that would be considered pressing now. 

John has not yet added his letter to Sherlock's notebook, and he likes to believe that he would have heard Sherlock wandering around. 

He does not know what Sherlock knows. He does not know who Sherlock is. He does not know what Sherlock has done to change himself. 

John, wake up. There's something we need to do. 

John sits awake, and Sherlock is sitting on the edge of his bed, and John had not thought that that would be so terrifying when it happened. 

No, stop. This is wrong and exploitative on so many levels. When Sherlock learns about you, it is forgotten and relearned, and you have the ability to change his perception of you so easily. He never questions what you say. You would be grooming someone that would not have the capacity to see what is happening. 

He does not know, yet, that he is wrong, or how little it would take for him to become right. (Here, Sherlock is giving him a way. Here, Sherlock is trusting John with the ability to ruin his life, and trusting him to ensure it. It would be a great responsibility for anyone.) 

John, I need your help. 

Is something wrong, he says. His mouth feels like powder is pouring out of it. 

What if I forget again, Sherlock says. What if- 

It won't. 

It did. 

I will keep you safe. 

What if you  _can't_ , Sherlock says, and their eyes meet, and Sherlock is terrified. 

I do not want to be taken from you again, John thinks, even as I know that it is inevitable. 

What if I don't want to, Sherlock says. 

I can, John says. I know now, what I must do. 

John, you may have power over me, but you do not have power over the world. You do not-

What did you have in mind, he says, before he has to yell. 

Writing on skin. 

John breathes. 

Then: No. 

I refuse to-

Why? 

Because, John says. 

Sherlock looks at him. 

I need to know. Do you know what it's like to be sitting in a cell and not know where you are? Do you know? 

There are things I need to remember, Sherlock says. 

Go to a tattoo artist, John says. 

But then they'd know. 

What are you saying, and John's eyes flick towards Sherlock's arms as Sherlock rolls up his sleeves and pulls out a knife. 

No. 

I scar easily, and am a very quiet drunk, Sherlock says. 

No, and John closes his eyes and turns away. 

John, I would remember whatever you wanted of you. 

John bites his tongue. No, he knows he should say. No. I should not let you let me destroy you. 

And then, this will end in blood. This will end in you dying. What would it even be like for you to wake up, covered in scars, in pain from something you don't know? 

What if it got infected, or worse? What would it be like for you to have an addiction you didn't understand? 

Just little things, Sherlock says. Like what happened. And you. I'll write it out on my arm, and you can trace. 

No, John says. 

Why not? 

Because - because I... 

Because scars mean something, he wants to say, and cannot find the words. His shoulder throbs, swallowed by the endless sand that is his past, his heart, his mind. 

* * *

John adds in the page that night. Give me one last day to admire this man from a distance. Give me two first nights. 

He feels disgusted. 

Sherlock looks up at him with eyes that sparkle with close-held secrets. 

You feel ashamed, Sherlock says. 

I... John feels his face burn red. 

Do not. I have a handicap, yes, but it does not rob me of my ability to function, to breathe, to love. 

Do not think me less for what I am, he says. 

* * *

Sherlock does not know how much of his talk is truth, how much of it is lies, and how much of it is for a purpose and therefore completely independent of those two things. 

Sherlock does not know how much help he needs, and what the difference is between that and how much he wants. 

* * *

Sherlock gives John an ultimatum a week later. 

Tomorrow, I will not read my journal. Everything I cannot deduce, you must scar onto my arm. 

And John finds himself agreeing. He does not know why. 

* * *

Sherlock deduces: 

that he has skipped time

that John is to be trusted 

the nature of the experiment they are conducting

that he has written more lately 

that he has finished his doctorate

that he does not work in chemistry 

that something between him and John has changed 

and that Sherlock's current job is something physical

John is impressed, and writes down Sherlock's deductions when he hopes Sherlock isn't looking. 

At noon, he gives Sherlock his notebook, has him read what he missed. 

At the last page, Sherlock sets his book down. 

Four things, Sherlock says. I want four things. 

What are they, John says. 

That I have anterograde amnesia is the first. Don't bother with how or when or why or what I've done. I can deduce that. 

Next, that I work for Scotland Yard as a private detective. I didn't figure that out, and if I am ever captured, I need to know. If I locate another nemesis, we must find a way to keep their information on my person, possibly in the form of a tattoo, or a piece of jewelry. 

Thirdly, that I am in love with you, and that you are worthy of my trust. 

And fourth, that my brother Mycroft cares. 

The way that Sherlock says the fourth item on the list should alarm John. It does not. 

* * *

You won't see the lines, John says. 

It's either this, or - 

John pulls out his tattoo needle. 

I don't believe you've ever told me that story, Sherlock says. 

Some of us have secrets too. Now stay still. 

* * *

Sherlock thinks that it looks beautiful. The tattoos. 

He doesn't see them before he reads his notebook, most days. But still, they are there - a way for him to manually modify his body, his mind. This is an act of self-creation. 

And John goes along with it, finally, because why try to fight the inevitable? 

* * *

John, you are endlessly surprising, he says, as he reads what John is writing over his shoulder. 

I would expect that to be the case, he says. 

I thought I had you figured out, and here you are, surprising me. 

What did you think I was, and he does not know whether he is scared or excited. 

I thought you were the intersection of power and powerlessness, Sherlock says. But you do not write in that way. 

How do I write? 

Like a soldier and a doctor, and Sherlock leaves. Not ready. Not yet. 

* * *

It is John that has the idea, though he will go to his grave denying it. 

You are sick of stagnation, he tells Sherlock. 

Yes, Sherlock says. Yes, I am. 

And who you are is influenced entirely by what you write in your notebook, John continues. 

Sherlock blinks. 

No. 

This is not a negation of what John is saying. It is a refusal to cooperate. 

Sherlock, John says, gentle, calm, you will never be able to be like a normal human again, and you must learn to accept that. You can now do things that others cannot. You are as close to a blank slate as any man can get. You are capable of defining yourself in any way you wish. 

And what are a few lies, in exchange for that? 

Oh, Sherlock thinks. That's why. 

* * *

The first time they agree to lie about Sherlock's identity, John watches as Sherlock writes and holds the true journal on his person at all times. Should anything go wrong, John will hand the journal to Sherlock, and he will read it, and both of them know that there is a very real possibility that he will be angry, which is why it is imperative that John takes note of this experiment. 

You cannot think of yourself as an experiment, John says. 

I am, though. You know I am. 

The change is a simple one: John was married, and his wife has died. Something distant enough from Sherlock to not change much. This is a change to Sherlock's world. 

* * *

Sherlock gives John a little extra space, the next day. He is softer around the edges, in a way that John does not need but that John can understand. 

He is surprised then, when Sherlock says, you do not act as I expected you would. I believe I would have written that down. 

John does not know how to react to that, so he gives Sherlock his journal. 

And Sherlock  _smiles,_ the bastard. 

* * *

So. We cannot lie about my environment. 

But we can lie about me. Myself. 

How, John asks. 

Simple. I just change what I like. I can argue for both a romantic and a modernist view of the world, and I am only held to modernism by preference. I can change that. 

What becomes of the truth, then, John does not ask. 

How, John asks, again. 

I am beginning to forget what my life was like before the accident, Sherlock says. I am beginning to lose myself. And other things stick. I do not think that I could forget you if I wanted to; sheer repetition has ground your face into my memory. In a few more years, I will probably be able to remember _us,_  without help. Things go slowly, now, but they go. Maybe I am healing. 

So. I have more freedom, to change who I am. I am less bound to what I was. 

Sherlock knows that John can see the hitch in Sherlock's breath wherein Sherlock is terrified. 

So. I have written a journal. Bright red. It makes me out to be a romanticist, one that decided to turn to writing, one where the accident happened about a year ago, and I just left. 

It is imperative that you change the calendars, or this will not work. 

So, after Sherlock goes to sleep, John removes all ten calendars from their pegs and replaces them with ones from a year ago. 

When he goes to sleep, he feels disgusted, even as he knows that this was entirely Sherlock's idea. 

He hates the idea of being an enabler. 

* * *

Sherlock seems different, now. A little bit, or maybe a lot. 

He is writing, when he is at the breakfast table. 

What's that, John says. 

Something, Sherlock says, as they agreed he would. 

And John ends the experiment early. It is a success. He has seen enough. 

* * *

Sherlock almost isn't angry. (The problem of what-is-the-truth-what-do-I-trust has not hit him yet.) 

You are afraid, Sherlock says. Afraid of having too much power. 

Not quite, John says. 

Ah. 

You are afraid, then, of ruining my life. 

I... 

Don't worry. If I wanted to ruin my life, I would be able to do it without your interference. 

That is why I am afraid. 

Oh? 

I am trying to avoid the natural state of the world, and I know that I will fail. You will move on and destroy yourself, and I will grow bored or self-loathing and drift away and what is now shall never exist again. 

And then they kiss, and the world stands still, for just a moment. 

* * *

For the holidays, Mycroft drags Sherlock home, and they spend their first hour of freedom cuddling together on the bed and trying not to think about a future that Sherlock cannot imagine and Mycroft does not know how to plan for. They do not know what they will do, which makes the present all the more beautiful, and the future all the more terrifying. 

Sherlock falls asleep, and Mycroft watches him, wonders when the memories fade away. Was it the instant his eyes closed? Or were they lost in the shuffling of dreams? 

Did Sherlock dream, anymore? 

Mycroft pulls out Sherlock's suitcase and sets the current journal on the side table. He pulls off Sherlock's glasses, then, and sets them on top.

He then goes back to being next to Sherlock, and lets himself fall asleep. 

* * *

He wakes up before Sherlock does, but not much before. As if sensing his motion, Sherlock blinks awake. 

He looks at Mycroft's face and smiles. 

Good morning, Mycroft says. 

Shh, Sherlock says. I'm trying to figure out what I missed. 

Sherlock squints at him. 

Those grey hairs are new, Sherlock says. And I do not remember any way that I could have gotten here. So, therefore, I must be losing my mind. In some way.

Sherlock did not know about anterograde amnesia before he had it. Right. 

Maybe, Sherlock continues, in a Charlie Gordon - esque way?

You seem remarkably calm about this. 

Well, I seem to have been able to use this quirk of mine for sex. 

Do you do cases like these for Scotland Yard? 

Do I? He says this with a smile and does not expect it to sting. 

Mycroft is struck by the fact that he is in love with someone that will never change. This unnerves him. Deeply. 

Read your journals, he says. 

* * *

Mycroft knows that Sherlock lies to himself. 

What he does not know, yet, is whether he approves. 

What he also does not know is that he is guilty of the same sin, and that it wouldn't matter, anyway, what he thought. 

* * *

The day before Sherlock goes back home, he crawls out of bed late. 

Can't sleep, he says. 

Stay. 

I want to write this down. 

Sherlock leaves and cleans himself and puts on his nice suit and stares out the window. 

You have to tell one of them, Sherlock thinks. You are going to destroy yourself. 

Mycroft has not seen his tattoo, yet. Sherlock knows how to cover things with makeup, and Mycroft never was as observant as he. 

But still, there it is: undeniable proof of his betrayal. These are the four facts of his new life that he can no longer change. 

He sits on the roof and writes that he is scared. 

* * *

Sherlock goes home, and does not know whether to feel guilty that John has missed him so. John does not know. 

Would John still miss him, if he knew that he was not the only one? If he knew that Sherlock belonged to not just him? 

(Sherlock's own feelings are never taken into account, here. That he loves both of them is both true, and irrelevant. 

One day, you will have to pick, he knows, and purge the other from your life. 

What will you remember, he thinks. Of the one you have to kill.) 

* * *

Do you mind, others having so much power over you? 

Sherlock finds that he does not. 

It is an act of trust, he tells himself. You are programmed to be scared, and you are slowly reprogramming yourself, with people that you trusted before the accident, whose trust has simply been confirmed. 

And then: Sherlock, not all authorities are bad. Not all friends are worthless. Not all lovers leave. 

Breathe in, out. 

You are simply the universe in microcosm. Humanity, highlighted. 

* * *

John finds out when he picks up a phone call intended for Sherlock. 

Sherlock, come over, Mycroft says. 

This is John, he replies. Also, why, exactly? 

Mycroft has not prepared a lie. 

I... 

Oh lord, John says. Do you - 

Mycroft hangs up. 

* * *

Later: So  _that's_ what that meant. The fourth tattoo. 

John is so confused that he doesn't know if he minds. 

* * *

Mycroft figures out three days later. He has called Sherlock over, because there was no point in being cautious, anymore. 

He thinks that Sherlock chalks up his nervousness to the taboo of it all, and not fear before the end of the world. 

When Sherlock is asleep, Mycroft pulls up Sherlock's sleeve and rubs off the makeup. 

He is in no way surprised. 

He reapplies the mask and goes back to sleep. 

* * *

After that, Sherlock became a pawn. 

They would fight over him in the most quiet ways possible, emails that were almost not hostile, control over holidays. Little things, but they're really all that matters. 

Neither knows when, exactly, Sherlock figured out. But they knew that he had when he  _laughed_ the next time the two were in the same room. 

* * *

It seemed like Sherlock didn't quite mind being a pawn in some secret struggle for sexual dominance. He seemed to quite like it, actually. 

This infuriated Mycroft and John both. The fact that he was seemingly incapable of taking this seriously - 

They both felt guilty, afterwards. 

* * *

Sherlock's memory got better, slowly. Year three, and there were hints of the past, still left, still growing. He could remember most of what he learned for his chemistry doctorate. A little more - the way Ms Hudson cooed over him and John. Molly Hooper's face and name and kindness. 

Not enough for him to paint a full picture, to have a full understanding, but he had a sneaking suspicion that no-one did. 

Flickers of understanding. Permanence destroyed. 

* * *

We must do something about this, Mycroft says to John over the phone. 

Yes, John says. He knows. 

Are you upset? 

I don't know if there was any way I couldn't be. 

He is simply trying to appease both of us. It is not that he desires both of us, but that both of us desire him. 

I don't think so, John says. 

And then: He remembers. I can see it. 

Really? 

Ask him my middle name, the next time he's over. I never told him until after we became... involved. He remembers it. 

He could have deduced it. 

Trust me. Trust  _him._

We must do something about this. 

How about we start with you acknowledging that your brother is not helpless, John says, his voice made of cold things, sharp things. 

And then, Sherlock will be sent out on a case, tomorrow. I will meet you at your home. 

* * *

They stare at each other. 

That is the first ten minutes of their meeting. Aggression, expressed through eye contact. Something meant to be intimate, turned into something vicious and invasive. 

It is John who speaks first. 

Sherlock loves both of us, he says. 

Yes, Mycroft says, because it is true. 

And both of us love him, John says. 

That is also true, and John can see that Mycroft is becoming annoyed. This is nothing he did not know, or at least did not want to acknowledge. 

And you cannot, legally, be with him, and Mycroft interrupts him and says no, no, no, we are the Holmes brothers. We will make this work. 

And then more silence. 

We are fighting over someone, John says, finally, that we do not understand. 

Yes. 

Someone that we have immense power over. Someone that both of us have the power to control. 

No, Mycroft says. No. You only have power if you are willing to use it. 

How did we manage to be controlled by someone that does not know what year it is, John says, and he is trying not to laugh, now. This situation is absurd, incomprehensible, and the mind, when confronted with what it cannot understand, chooses usually to find amusement. 

Their laughter stops as suddenly as it starts. 

Mycroft: Do you mind? 

I do not like  _sharing,_ Mycroft. 

But... if we must. 

* * *

They call Sherlock over to Mycroft's house, afterwards. 

Sherlock, John says. As I am sure you know, we have both become aware, recently, that -

That both of you are fucking me? Sherlock is wearing a shit-eating grin. As if to say: How did you not notice earlier? 

Yes, John says. And we have decided that we are both... unopposed to this situation. 

Really, Sherlock says. 

And then, That's not what I expected you to do. That's not what I expected at all. 

Is that a bad thing, says Mycroft. 

Not at all, and Sherlock kisses Mycroft and takes John's hand and heads home, both alone and together. 

Normal rules do not apply. 

**Author's Note:**

> i find that sherlock is much more interesting in general as a study in power.


End file.
